


Funny-Shaped Balls

by rain_sleet_snow



Series: Whole New Vision [18]
Category: Primeval
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-13
Updated: 2009-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 12:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3173212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/pseuds/rain_sleet_snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watching your kid get bruised, soaked and covered in mud in the name of team sports is a rite of passage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Funny-Shaped Balls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luka/gifts).



> Distraction fic for Luka. :) She prompted me ‘Kit, Stephen and Ryan, rugby, winning’ or something along those lines. The funny-shaped balls thing is a joke I heard (I think) from my brother and his friends when he was still playing.

                “ _Aagh_!”

 

                A teenager went flying across the wet grass and skidded to a halt with his face in the mud, and Kit grabbed the ball, tucked it under his arm and sprinted for the try line, passing it to Robbie, who put on a burst of speed and dived across the line with a massive fullback hard on his heels, tumbling hard onto the ground with the fullback flat on top of him, but the ball on the other side of the line.

 

                One group of spectators erupted in ragged cheers, the whistle blew, and Kit wiped his face, getting mud all over his forehead and into his hair. Then he went to help peel the fullback off Robbie in order to stop him crushing Kit’s friend in revenge both for the scored try and the backchat still reeling off Robbie’s tongue, despite the fact that it was getting increasingly wheezy as Robbie gasped for breath.

 

                “C’mon, get off,” Kit said without any particular animosity, poking the irate rugby player in the ribs, and then bending down to grab a malodorous ankle and heave, successfully shifting him enough that Robbie could kick and squirm his way out and clamber to his feet, grinning like a chimpanzee. Kit tried to decide whether adrenaline, winning, or the lurid threats the referee was dealing out to the fullback played a greater part in the grin, but gave up when Robbie giggled and spun around, lifting his arms to the sky and whooping.

 

                “We _won_!”

 

                “You’re nuts,” Kit laughed half-admiringly, and grabbed him by the back of the collar and dragged him away. “You’re also manky. Mud from head to foot and squashed by two tons of rank sausage-brained rugby-player. Auntie Taylor’s going to kill you.”

 

                “Ooo, get _you_ , Mister Shine,” Robbie giggled, and tackled Kit to the ground and scrubbed his hair in the mud. The fine rain that had held off for the second match started again, and Kit yelled as he was slowly soaked and rather more quickly coated.

 

                “Come on, you pair of heathens,” said a sensible, amused voice, and Kit stopped trying to scrub Robbie’s face into the grass and got up, grinning at his father and rubbing his hands futilely on his shorts.

 

                Ryan’s grin widened. “They’re not going to get any cleaner, Kit. Come on, you two. Taylor says if you’re as mucky as you look she’s going to get Lizzie to let her hose you down outside the clubhouse before you even get near the car.”

 

                Both boys groaned, and began to tramp across the mud of the playing fields after Ryan. “Where’s Stephen?” Kit asked.

 

                “Went to the clubhouse with Taylor when the rain started,” Ryan said.

 

                “Wimps!” Robbie said cheerfully.

 

                Ryan grinned again. “I’d like to see you say that to your mum’s face, Robert Finn.”

 

                Robbie yelped. “Don’t tell her I said it!”

 

                Ryan laughed. “Your secret is safe with me.”

 

                Robbie squinted in pretend disbelief. “Oh yeah?”

 

                “It’s _me_ you’ve got to worry about,” Kit chimed in on cue, snickering, and high-fived Ryan as Robbie wailed in only slightly fake horror.

 

                They got to the clubhouse, and found Stephen, Taylor and Finn, Finn muddy to the ankles, waiting for them. “Oh my God, Robert _Finn_ ,” Taylor said without preamble, and grabbed her son and hauled him round the corner of the clubhouse to where the outside hose waited, ruthlessly ignoring his wails of ‘ _Mu-um_!’

 

                “Good game, Kit?” Finn asked, grinning.

 

                Kit ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up on end, and grinned back. “Awesome, thanks. Although Tom Attlee kind of sat on Robbie at the end, there.”

 

                “Ahh, it won’t kill him,” Finn said easily, and then jumped as the bellow ‘ _Robert Diarmuid Finn, control your son_!’ came from around the corner, forcing him to go and investigate.

 

                “Poor bugger,” Kit grinned, and winced as Taylor shouted ‘And don’t think I’ve forgotten you _either_ , Kit Hart Ryan!’

 

                “You’re in trouble now,” Stephen observed, and leaned against the doorjamb. “You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards and thrown under a tractor. Did you win?”

 

                Kit gave him an are-you-stupid look. “Thirty-six to seventeen, Stephen!”

 

                “Ah, so you lost _that_ badly?” Stephen winced with theatrical sympathy.

 

                Both Kit and Ryan gave him are-you-stupid looks.

 

                Stephen spread his hands and treated them to the kind of angelic smile that had warded off the demons of administration for years. “What can I say? I’m just not interested in men with funny-shaped balls.”

 

                Kit sniggered. “Was that funny when you first tried it on Ryan twenty years ago?”

 

                “Oi, have respect for the aged,” Ryan grinned, cuffing his son gently on the back of the head. “Speaking of funny, I think Taylor’s done with Robbie.”

 

                “Oh, god, no,” Kit said fervently. “I am not standing in the rain while Auntie Taylor throws freezing cold water over me.”

 

                Stephen laughed. “In that case, would you like to _walk_ back to Robbie’s house?”

 

                “Robbie’d walk with me,” Kit declared.

 

                “N-n-not a b-b-loody ch-chance, mate,” Robbie declared with equal certainty, appearing round the corner dripping wet, with his teeth chattering. His father, looking profoundly amused, draped a towel over his head. Robbie wrapped it round his shoulders, and jerked a thumb at the corner of the clubhouse. “M-man up and f-face the music.”

 

                Kit sighed, and looked resigned.

 

                “Go on, Kit. You can do it,” Stephen said kindly. “Even if you have got funny-shaped balls.”


End file.
